Hurricane
by Min Daae
Summary: There are some things you never want to have to explain to your sister. Dismembered bodies is up there. Definitely. High-T for Deb's mouth and dead bodies.


Deb has a lot of expressions, but I'd tend to say that fear isn't one of them.

Learn something new every day, I guess.

But now I have a problem. My sister's unconscious, and unlikely to be very happy with me. And my friend Peter Watson, escaped three convictions of rape and murder on a technicality, is now in six or seven pieces.

That's what Deb's not going to be too happy about.

I hate to be rushed in my work, I really do. But now I've been interrupted, my rhythm thrown off, the groove lost. And I really need to think about what I'm going to say to my sweet sister when she wakes up. _No, Debra, it's not what it looks like. I'm _another _serial killer who chops people into neat little pieces. Promise. _

Yeah, I don't think that'll fly.

"Sorry Peter," I tell him. "I'd really like to take my time with you, but family emergencies…you know how it is."

One thing you can say for deeply disturbed Dexter. I always clean up my mess.

II.

When Deb wakes up, she reaches for her gun first, stares at her bonds, looks at me. I let her process, looking out at the water. "Fucking fuck," she says. Ever the eloquent one, that's Debra.

"Yeah," I agree. "Something like that."

"Where's the other guy?" She asks, and I can see her swallow. _The other guy. What – oh, yes. Mr. Watson. _

"Probably nearing Georgia by now," I say, and turn around. Deb starts struggling and looks – damn. Scared again. "Don't look at me like that," I say, but I guess 'peevish' in this case sounds a little too much like 'homicidal.'

"Jesus, Dex! What the – how do you _want _me to look at you?" She's trying to inch backward. Yeah, this isn't going so well.

"It's not what it looks like."

"Not what it – oh yeah, because it _looked _like you were chopping someone into pieces, and I'm not sure how that can't be what it looks like, and-"

"Deb, hold on."

"-you know, the fact that I'm tied up is not really making you look so good, right? Also that you're holding a fucking knife and still covered in – oh Jesus," and she threw up on my nice, clean deck.

"You know, I washed that yesterday," I say, and Deb makes a strangled noise, something like 'knife.' I glance down. It seems to be pointing at her. "Oh right," I say, "That," and set the knife down out of my sister's reach. Deb might feel bad for killing me later, but that doesn't bring me back to life. And I'd really like to spare her the guilt.

"Don't," I warn her, kneeling, and she freezes like a rabbit. Debra. Now _that's _disturbing. _"—_Don't do anything stupid like jumping off the boat. I _really _don't want to have to fish you out. Okay?"

I decide to call that a nod and cut through the bonds holding her feet. I examine her hands, and decide that those can stay the way they are.

"I would really like," Deb says, "To hear a nice, _normal _explanation that doesn't involve you killing people."

Well, she asked for it. "I was just passing through," I say, and crack a grin I don't feel at all. I guess Debra can tell, because she doesn't grin back. Poor old Dexter. He will never understand your peculiar Earthling humor.

"That's not _funny, _Dex."

"Whoops," I offer, and I'm really glad she doesn't have her gun. Maybe I was wrong about her feeling guilty. Right now she looks like she could shoot me, throw me overboard, and go have a beer afterwards. For now, she swallows it. Or tries.

"This isn't the first time, is it?" Ah, great. Here it comes.

"Not…exactly."

"Plastic wrap," she says, slowly. "Dismemberment. Aquatic dumping ground. Fucking Christ, Dex-"

"I could tell you I'm a copycat if it makes you feel better," I offer. Debra doesn't seem to hear me, just shaking her head.

"You're the Bay Harbor Butcher?"

"I really hate that name."

Here it comes. The dawning horror. "Then Doakes-?"

Got in a little deep. Found what he wasn't supposed to. Kind of like you, as a matter of fact. I don't think that's the right approach, though. "I didn't kill him, if that's what you're asking."

All right, so that was probably the wrong approach too. Now Deb just looks more horrified. "Tell me the fucking truth," she says, sitting up a little using the side of the boat. I back off a little, just in case she tries one of her punches.

"Fine," I say easily. "I put him in a cage and framed him as the Bay Harbor Butcher, but I _didn't _kill him. I do have _standards._"

"Yeah, I know," Deb says, looking a little sick. "If you ask me that just makes the whole thing even more fucked up. What the hell are you, Dex?"

When in doubt, be facetious. "Your little brother."

"Are you a fucking _sociopath?_"

Maybe. No. Harry thought so. "Something like that, yes. Are you trying to get anywhere? Because right now you're going in circles and if you'd let me explain for a little while, maybe-"

"Explain what? That you're a fucking psycho killer?"

I sigh. Sit down, and look at her. She blinks at me, seeming surprised. "If you're going to yell at me, go ahead. I don't like to talk over people." I can tell I'm making her more nervous. I guess this must be pretty weird; normal people's siblings don't have conversations involving duct tape, probably. We just stare at each other.

"Are you done?" I try.

"You're my _brother._" She sounds sick again. "Dex, you're my fucking _brother._"

"Foster brother," I correct her, intending to make her feel better – _you're not really related to me – _but that seems to be the wrong response too. I can hear her breathing too fast. She thinks I'm going to kill her. Which is exactly the problem. _Rule Number One. Don't get caught. _(But she's my sister! I whine. Sometimes I wish I did things Brian's way. It would probably be easier.)

Deb and I stare at each other a little more. "What now?" She asks, in a small voice I really don't like. I shrug.

"I don't really know. This isn't exactly a situation I've run into before." Except once. And Harry killed himself after that one. I frown, suddenly. "Are you all right?"

She stares at me like I'm completely nuts. Not that she hasn't been looking at me like that for a while now. "Am I _what_?"

_Do you feel any urge to hurt yourself? Because last time someone really saw what I am it was Dad, and he committed suicide. _I suspect one bombshell an evening is enough. After all, I didn't take that one too well, and I'm the one without any feelings. Sort of. "Never mind, forget I asked." I pause. I do feel a little disgusting. Rushing always makes things messier. "Were you following me or is this just my lucky day?"

I think that's one of the nastier looks I've ever gotten from Deb. "Following you," she says, a little nastily. "I thought you might be cheating on Rita. Again."

"So is this better, or worse?"

She stares at me, like she can't believe she's actually looking at little brother Dex everyone loved more. "I can't believe it," she says. "First my fiancée, now my brother…"

Brian wasn't exactly an accident, I could tell her, but I don't think that would help right now. So I just shrug and try to give her a look of 'I know, what can you do?' You'd think I was waving a foot at her for the disgusted look she gives me.

"So what? Are you going to kill me?" From Debra, that's a challenge. Just like Doakes. I try to step around that, awkwardly.

"I was telling the truth, about standards." I pause. _Honestly, Debra, I don't know. First rule says I do. But I don't really want to. And the Code wouldn't like it very much. _No, all honesty is not really the best policy. "No; the set-up's all wrong. It doesn't work otherwise."

She shudders. Maybe a little too much truth. "Jesus H. Fucking Christ."

"I'm trying to be truthful," I complain.

"Truthful? All right, truth me this – how many, Dex?" It's amazing how much like a cop she can sound while sitting up on the deck with her hands taped together. I should probably do something about that, but I don't want to get close enough to.

I picture the slides, because that's the best way to keep track. "Umm-m," I say, hedging a little. "Somewhere around forty. Ish." She just boggles at me.

"There is something wrong. In your head."

"Yes," I say patiently, "I know." _It probably has something to do with a chainsaw and two inches of blood. And maybe genetics, but who knows._

_And if you're not going to kill me, _I can hear her ask, _what are you going to do? _I sit down again. "You know, Deb, it's your move." I can tell she doesn't get it, so I open the bench next to me and pull out her gun. "Your call. Everyone gets caught eventually. Even me."

She doesn't seem to get it. That's good, I can drop it. "Now-"

"Dexter," she says, cutting me off. "Are you saying you're going to just – let me walk off and call the police on your ass?"

"No, not exactly." I smile at her, aware that it's a little strange. Imminent demise will never be particularly appealing to me. Death and I may be fairly good friends, but I prefer to keep her at an arm's length. "If anyone is going to drag me in for questioning, it had better be you, and you had better get your badge for it."

She doesn't look scared anymore, at least. Just…blank.

"Fuck you," she says, eventually, "_Fuck _you," and I breathe out, relieved, and start working on the duct tape. I don't use a knife. I figure that might be pushing it a little. After a few minutes, she gets the guts to ask. "Would you really just walk in with me?"

"No," I say honestly, "I would sedate you again, leave you on the nearest beach, and head for Cuba."

"You bastard," she says, which I decide not to reply to, busy peeling the duct tape off. She reaches for the gun, and I tuck it back in the bench.

"I don't think so. Safety first."

"Don't push it," she warns me. "I don't like you very much right now." She says it like she's joking, but while I'm turning on the motor I can see the way she looks at me sideways, warily, like she's sharing a boat with a sleeping alligator. It's more than I expected.

I lean back against the side of the boat, listening to the water slap against the sides. Debra seems to be still trying to process. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. I could even be flattered that she didn't see this coming. She swallows. "So you didn't kill Doakes?"

"No, that was Lila."

"Did you kill Lila?"

"Yes."

I can see her twitch again, out of the corner of my eye. Another point on the monster chart for Dexter Morgan. "Have you ever – wanted to kill Rita?"

"_No._ I've never killed anyone innocent."

"Are you s-"

"Yes." Unless you count Doakes. Which I'm not going to. Debra swallows a little.

"Shit, Dexter," she says, and I guess she likes the way it sounds, because she says it again. "Shit. I can't…" She rubs her face. "What am I supposed to think? Are you even still my brother? Can I trust anything you've ever said to me?"

_No, probably not. But can I at least have some extra credit points for not dumping you in the harbor? _"This is the only thing I've lied about," I lie. Other than Brian and dad's death and a few other things. She's still staring at me. I guess maybe she's looking for feelings.

"Did Harry know?"

Nope. I was wrong. Just putting things together, like a good cop. I sit down again. "Are you sure you want to ask that question?"

"No," she says, grimly, "But I didn't want to know any of the rest of this, either. And don't you dare lie, Dex, because I _will _just wait until tomorrow morning to call you in."

I lean my head back. Simpler is better. "Yeah. He knew."

Deb sucks in her breath through her teeth like someone's punched her in the ribs, which I guess I have. She stands up and goes to the other end of the boat, as far away from me as she can get. If I were really a sociopath that wouldn't bother me. Since it does, what does that make me?

"Can't you just – stop?" She says, in a small voice. "If you can – _act normal _all the time, why-"

"You should know better than that," I say reproachfully, and the look she gives me is so disgusted I think I understand how puppies feel when they mess on the floor. I guess it could be worse. She's not throwing anything at me. Yet.

"So what happened?" She asks, eventually, and I can hear her trying not to judge. It's not working very well. "You didn't get the puppy you wanted? Nah, you hate dogs."

"Dogs hate _me_," I correct her, but that's not the point. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You know, where did it start? What's your origin story – I don't know, Dex, I'm trying to make _sense _of this shit, help me out a little…"

"Nothing you did," I say, misinterpreting her worry. She looks like she could flay me alive, just for a moment. "There was…a lot of blood involved," I say, trying at least a little bit of the truth. "It was – before Harry." Before Harry. B.H. The epochs of my life.

Silence. She's thinking again, or maybe just in shock.

"So on a scale of one to ten, how much do you wish I were dead right now?" I ask, trying to smile.

"I don't know," she says, and just sounds empty. Another joke falls flat. Way to go me. She's bending over the railing and I wonder if I should pull her back. Is this at risk behavior? I don't know. I've never been depressed. Deb's never been depressed.

"—Deb," I try, "This doesn't have to be your problem. Just…forget about all of this, and-"

"Are you fucking shitting me?" She whirls around, her mouth thin and tight with anger. "I can't _forget, _Dexter. Normal people don't _forget _walking into a room and finding their brother slicing someone into bloody little pieces. Normal people don't _forget _that kind of thing, but you're not normal people, I guess you wouldn't know-"

"Debra," I say, "Be careful-"

"Careful? Like you're careful? Not to get caught in your perverted little hobby? Jesus _Christ! _You know what it's like, finding out that your brother is a psycho freak?" Yes, actually, I'd be tempted to say. It was pretty nice. While it lasted. "And now I'm going to have to sit back and know where you're going on all your 'late nights out' or watch you _die, _and do you know how much that pisses me off-?"

She's getting a little too close to the edge. I try to step toward her and she jerks away. "Don't you dare-"

The boat hits a wave and rocks violently. Debra veers toward the railing. Dexter saves the day, hauling her back toward the center of the boat, and she elbows me in the ribs. "Ow," I say, trying to keep calm, but she's still hissing mad.

"Get the fuck off, Dex."

"I'm going to assume we're okay as long as you're still calling me 'Dex.'"

"Get the fuck off, _Dexter, _then." The boat stops rocking, and I let her go, giving her a little shove toward the bench.

"Don't fall overboard," I tell her. "I'd miss you." My ribs probably wouldn't, though. She's been practicing. "Your gun's in the bench, it's not locked."

"What am I supposed to do with it?" She asks, a little breathless. She's still scared, and pretending not to be. "Shoot you?"

"That's up to you, isn't it?" I trust her not to. I hope she realizes that. I hope I haven't guessed wrong.

"Fuck you," she says, after a few minutes. "I'm not going to – shit. Just take me back to the harbor, okay?"

"Sure thing." Protective or less creepy? Not much of a choice there; I'm not letting Deb wander off and overdose on gunshot wounds. Harry wouldn't approve. "You're staying with me."

She stares at me, fear coming back again. "What?"

"Staying. With me." I start up the motor. "I'll take the couch."

"Why the hell do I have to-?"

I'm trying not to be too obvious, but she does make it hard. "I just want to keep an eye on you. Make sure you don't make any bad decisions."

"Like what," she challenges me, all bravado. "Going to the police?"

So much for subtlety. "No, more like a medicine cabinet." Deb stares at the back of my head as I sit down to take the wheel. I can feel it, but I have no idea what it means.

I turn off the motor coming into the harbor. While we're drifting toward the marina, Debra speaks again. "So…where do I fit in this construct life of yours?"

Oh. Now I get it. "You're my sister," I say. Start simply. She's not going for that one, though.

"Foster sister."

At least the motor can't drown me out. I turn around, at least halfway. "Deb – I don't know how much you'll believe anything I tell you right now. But yes, there are people I care about." People I'd kill for. People I'd kill my brother for. I'm not going to pull that one on her, though. "You. Rita, Cody, Astor. Harry." Maybe. "And that's the only thing I can think to tell you. That you're family, and you matter to me."

I can tell she's trying to decide if I'm just faking emotion again. Another trick up the sleeve of devious Dexter to lure her into his lair. This time, I guess I got it right. She looks down, still keeping her distance.

"I don't get you," she says, finally, as I pull into the dock and hop off to tie up my boat.

"Nobody does," I say, and offer my hand. She doesn't take it. That's all right, it'll take time, and I'll make sure Deb doesn't follow Harry too far. She'll hate me for a while. All I can do is hope that, like all the other times, eventually she'll forgive me. Even just a little.


End file.
